


And I Alone Have Escaped To Tell Thee

by sodakey



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Friendship, Gen, Mild Language, Not Book Verse, Spoilers for Previous Episodes, better if you've seen the episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodakey/pseuds/sodakey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s possible that Aramis is not coping as well as they hoped. Athos wishes he could avoid examining why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An episode four 'The Good Soldier' missing-scenes-and-epilog sort of story. It picks up right after Aramis shoots Marsac. 
> 
> Though primarily an Athos’s pov piece, it is more or less bookended with viewpoints by Aramis.

**~ Part One ~**

 

Aramis breathed, his chest fighting to expand. 

Marsac’s limp head felt warm and heavy against his sternum, motionless below the clutch of his hands.  _I am sorry old friend_ , Aramis thought, over and over.  _I’m sorry. My brother._

Around him, pouring though the door, came voices and pounding footsteps—questions.  The Cacophony from those present of the regiment reacting to the call and threat of exploded gunpowder.  The noise of their arrival blurred until they all sounded hazy and far away—the way frantic voices in a distant massacre might sound bleeding through winter trees.  

Aramis tightened his hands reflexively, locking them over Marsac’s listless body.

“Clear out!” Treville shouted over his head.  “It’s under control.  We’ve got it under control.  Clear the room!  Clear the landing!”  The door clanked loudly as it closed against the soldiers, snapping the echo into Aramis’s ears.  

Then suddenly, there was silence.

Silence and memory.

“Aramis,” Treville commanded.

Aramis blinked and saw the captain kneeling in front of him, no thought or emotion on his face that Aramis could read.  In response, he tightened his grip over Marsac anew and glanced at the door, cognizant of the murmur of voices from the soldiers beyond.  Finally, he focused keenly on Treville and cracked his mouth to speak.  “They’ll commend me,” he said.  “For killing an assassin and a deserter.  They’ll want him buried like a rabid dog.  But he saved my life, Captain.  Twenty dead Musketeers.  It should have been twenty-two.”  He swallowed, holding Treville’s gaze.  “It should have been twenty-two.”

The captain’s expression was immovable.  Aramis could not tell if he was about to be ridiculed or praised, and wasn’t sure he could summon the energy to respond in either case.  His heart thumped in a painful cadence.  His joints felt cold.  And he waited.

Treville put his hand on Marsac’s slumped shoulder then looked Aramis in the eye.  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

The air thinned.  It was a long time coming, too long and too slow perhaps for both of them, but Aramis nodded. 

Looking Treville in the eye, he nodded, and gave up his grip.

 

**~**

 

The after effect of cooling blood was tugging at Athos’s reserves as they returned from their dash to the prison.  He embraced it, only to feel a surge of heat rush through his veins when they were greeted by commotion in the garrison. 

In the yard, every soldier from the regiment not on assignment seemed to be present.  Milling about with wondering gestures and low voices.

“Something’s gone on,” Porthos decreed quietly, obviously.

Athos nodded.  Heeding the tightening in his spine, he grabbed the nearest soldier.  “Barse, what’s happened?

Barse stepped back with him and flicked his gaze towards the armory.  “All we know is Aramis and that long-fled deserter, Marsac, were in the armory with the captain.  Near as we can tell, he shot him.”

“He shot him?” questioned Athos, pulling Barse around to face him.  “Who?”

“Aramis,” said Barse.  “Seems like Treville was unarmed.”

“Aramis?” Porthos repeated darkly, striding closer.

Athos's heart was picking up speed.  “Aramis? Aramis was? Aramis shot—”

“Marsac,” Barse interjected. 

Athos had to stop himself from clenching his hands into fists and giving the soldier a shake.  “Slow down, Barse,” he insisted.  “From the beginning now.  With detail.”    

Barse darted his gaze to d’Artagnan, then looked at Porthos and seemed to realize the confusion he was feeding.  “Aramis is all right,” he said.  “Near as we can tell, it was Aramis that did the shooting, the killing shot anyway—we heard more than one pistol go off.  Beyond that, there’s not much I can say.  We heard the shots, but by the time any of us got in there, the captain was ordering everyone out.  Aramis was on the floor with Marsac—Marsac dead, bleeding at least—and all the weapons that had been fired were on the ground.”

Athos breathed out, loosening his clutch to Barse’s shoulder.  “Treville?”

“The captain came down, not two moments before you arrived.  He was carrying Marsac’s body, Aramis with him.  They loaded one of the wagons and were off, not a word to any of us.  Not a single word.”

“Thank you, Barse.”  Athos let go of his jacket, and stepped back, watching the man’s eyes turn heavy with some sort of compassion.  It seemed like he wanted to ask questions of his own, but he didn’t.  He glanced to the others one last time, gripped a hand to Athos’s shoulder, and walked away.

Feeling a little lost, Athos stared up towards the armory, then turned in a circle, sweeping over the confused-looking soldiers in the yard before letting his eyes find Porthos, who was standing motionless with a gaze both rigid and solemn.  “Aramis,” said Athos hollowly, uncertain if he was issuing a question or an answer.  “Aramis killed Marsac.” 

Porthos shook his head. “We shouldn’t have let him go off on his own.”

Stepping back, Athos ran a hand over his hair.  He had nothing to say to that, feeling bereft as to their next course of action.  Whatever happened here had already happened.  Having intervened in another necessary crisis, there was nothing they could do about this one.  Nothing.

“Barse said he was all right,” d’Artagnan interjected.  Athos couldn’t tell if the boy was talking to him or to Porthos, only that he seemed insistent on his statement, as though they needed reminding.  “It wasn’t Aramis that was shot.  He is all right.”

Porthos glanced sideways, then looked at Athos for a long time.  Finally, he clapped a warm, heavy hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder, but his expression didn’t change, and he didn’t say a word.

 

**~**

 

When Aramis returned from wherever he’d been with Treville, he brought with him orders that they four direct themselves to the palace for the duke’s valediction.  Orders, and the faint beginning of a darkening bruise around his eye.  He gave nothing else away.  Not in his expression.  Not in his stance. 

Coiling close to Aramis’s shoulder as he made to pass him, Porthos glared at the blackened eye, but didn't speak of it specifically.  “You all right?” he asked instead, rough gravel in his tone.

“Fine and fit,” Aramis answered, without a hint of mockery, but it was a dull impression of his usual life, and his gaze seemed far away.  Very far away. 

Porthos traded a look with Athos over his shoulder. 

“We’ve got to go,” Aramis added, lifting and resettling his hat.  “We have been told to make haste.  You as well, d’Artagnan.  I get the feeling the duke is in somewhat of a hurry to be absent from this place.”

After a pause, d’Artagnan and Porthos moved off through the gate.  Athos waited, and caught Aramis’s arm before he could vanish entirely into duty.  “Did Marsac try to shoot Treville?” he asked, perhaps too stiffly, or too darkly.  Aramis merely blinked and didn’t change expression.  “Aramis, what happened?” he stressed, stepping closer.

Folding his hand over Athos’s grip, Aramis patted it gently and then peeled it away.  “Nothing that matters now,” he said, eyes wrinkling softly in the corners.  “Come, we’ve got our orders.”

 

**~**

 

At the duke’s farewell, Athos noted that the captain’s face was worn and wounded also.  Not quite in the same manner as Aramis’s, but bruised and scraped nonetheless.  In the midst of the procession, briefly, Athos tried again to catch Aramis’s gaze, looking at him from down the line, but Aramis’s eyes were elsewhere—not seething, not grieving.  Not staring at the duke.  Not staring at anything. 

Aramis had ever lived with allegiance varied between king, country, and God, but since Athos had known him, his loyalty had always and consistently been with his brothers.  Never wavering.

Loyalty that extended and held to the twenty dead… and Marsac.  Regardless of what he'd done.  The assassin.  The deserter.  The brother Aramis had killed.

Porthos shook his head minutely and closed his mouth in a way that twisted at the blank space below Athos’s sternum.

Focusing away from all of them, Athos steeled and softened his posture for the duchess’s approach, listening quietly to her words regarding her husband—a man who had led the slaughter of twenty loyal soldiers and left Aramis half-dead in the woods.  But Athos knew what it was to love one you shouldn’t, to love one responsible for reprehensible acts, and he knew what it was to try to divide your duty with that love. 

Yet still he quested for absolutes.  For honor, and truths he could count on.

These were the things he’d wanted Aramis to consider before he’d disappeared down that road.  Sometimes it was better that love and loyalty be blind.

In the end, the Duke of Savoy and his family left the room without a backwards glance, and no one, not even the cardinal, commented on Aramis’s face. 

Or the captain’s.

 _Something is badly wrong_ , Athos heard Aramis insist from the store of his memory.  _What does it take to make you act?_

Shuttering the words into the corner of his thoughts, Athos stiffened as he and the others were given leave from the court.  He dismissed the disturbance from his mind quietly so he could nod and bow before the king and queen and feel nothing at all. 

Treville had admitted no wrong, he reminded himself. 

Treville was the finest man he knew.

 

**~**

 

Much later, in the dark pursuit of night, Athos found himself tucked under the eaves at the garrison, pretending at cards with Porthos while they waited. 

And waited. 

He was staring blankly at the latest hand dealt to him when Aramis appeared, walking through the rain.  His hat was in his hands, his light uniform cloak sagging off his shoulder like a weight, and he was soaked through—whatever protection his leather had given him long fled. 

Porthos kicked his boot out from his chair and stood, leaning against a post to contemplate Aramis’s visage.  Setting his cards on the dry table, Athos rose to join him.  

For a space of heartbeats, none of them spoke.  D’Artagnan had left hours before for some unnamed task.  So here they stood.  The three of them.  As long they’d been.

“Have you eaten?” Athos finally asked.  “There’s bread and meat from the cold room without the barracks, if so you need it.”

Aramis tipped his face up, the soaked planes and angles catching the dubious light from the flickering lamps.  “Not hungry,” he replied.  “Just needed a walk.”

“That long in the rain, in the right circumstances, could carry a man to death,” Porthos commented casually.

“Not me.  Not yet,” said Aramis, stepping near to tap a pale hand to Porthos’s shoulder.  There was a smile somewhere in the gesture, though it was fleeting and the kind of smile Athos didn’t like.  On the whole, Aramis seemed calm, but there was something ghost-like about him. Illusive.  “I believe I’ll retire to my room now,” he said next, eyes holding the trick of compassion.

“I’ll see he makes it home,” Porthos muttered, shaking his head as he made to follow.

Reaching out, Athos caught Porthos’s arm.  “Make certain he has hot water sent to his room, and a dry set of clothes.”

“I’ll see to it,” agreed Porthos, then hesitated.  “He has a look in his eye that’s not right.  If this is the start of something, I don’t like it.”

“He just needs time,” said Athos.

“Maybe.”  Porthos shrugged.  “What do we know about it, anyway?”  He began to move off as Athos tugged his own cloak about him, pulling his hat low over his eyes.  Far better protected from the elements than Aramis had been, he stepped into the rain in the direction of the road.

“Oi,” called Porthos.  “Am I to find you in the tavern later?  Because tonight, it might be I only have the fortitude to get one of you sorted.”

Athos tipped his head.  “I’ll be fine, Porthos.  See to Aramis.”  Then he turned, not quite intent on drinking himself into a stupor, but accepting it could happen in any case. 

In the deadest part of night, that’s where Porthos found him, gripping him by the lapels to make him stand, and directing him step by step out the tavern door, a leveraged arm balancing him upright all the way back to his quarters.

 

**~**

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said originally that this was a two parter. But I'm a horrible person and I changed my mind as I was editing. It just paced out better to shift it. That said, the last of it should be up fairly quick (I'm aiming for Saturday).

 

 **~**   **Part Two** **~**  

 

In the ensuing days, Athos did not try to speak to Aramis of Marsac again.  Not as such. 

And Aramis—Aramis stayed absent. Like a constant truth. Remaining somehow elsewhere and apart even when he stood with them on duty or sat with them in the garrison.

“He won’t talk to me,” Porthos informed Athos on the third day.  “Not about what happened.”

“Perhaps he can’t,” Athos answered, because though he himself trusted his friends, if d’Artagnan hadn’t physically been there to pull him out of the fire in his home, there are things he never would have spoken of again.  Not to anyone. 

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to,” countered Porthos. “Still believe he just needs time?”

Athos said nothing.  Leaning his shoulder to the post adjacent, he removed his hat and stared across the way to where Aramis was sitting on the bench under the balcony, fiddling with and making adjustments to the musket in his hands.

One floor above him, Treville was leaning on the railing, as he often did, watching the soldiers in the yard with an unreadable expression. Unreadable, but solid. The foundation of the Musketeers. The surest and most steady foundation Athos had to rely upon.

The juxtaposition of the two caught at him, hardening something in his throat.

Fine men, both of them.

 _I will never believe the captain is a traitor,_ he remembered saying.

Aramis’s response had been direct and swift. _You think I want to?_   A sincere question, and in retrospect, perhaps not rhetorical.

“It’s been less than a week,” d’Artagnan reasoned, drawing Athos’s attention back to their circle—he’d almost forgotten d’Artagnan was there.

 Porthos clenched his jaw and glanced away. “At the moment, I’m not sure that makes a damn bit of difference.”

 

~

 

On the fourth day, Athos arrived at the garrison—walking in beat to the pulse of his private hangover—to find d’Artagnan sitting alone at the table and sharpening his sword, even though he’d done so not one day prior.

“Porthos?” Athos asked, watching the way d’Artagnan’s eyes swept over him in an attempt to read his mood, which told Athos that Porthos was likely in a bad one.

“Treville sent him to get a status report from the Guard at the palace.  He’ll be back.”

Athos nodded and looked around without moving. There was a hollow feeling in the yard. Or perhaps that was simply a projection of his own making.  “Aramis?”

D’Artagnan paused in his sword work, then pointed his chin towards the armory.  “Airoldi and Travers told me he was in there, repairing weapons.” 

Reflexively, Athos turned his head in that direction, though he kept himself still and stayed his feet from following.

Settling on a hesitant look, d’Artagnan pressed his sharpening stone flat to the table and lifted his eyes, as though wanting to say more but unsure of the finesse required to say it.

Athos stared until he spoke.

“Airoldi also told me that Aramis has been in there every morning since it happened, early, including the morning after Marsac was shot. He said Barse found him in there before the sun was even up.  Said he was… cleaning the blood.”

Athos’s chin rose with his chest as he breathed that in. His gaze ticked back to the closed armory door, conjuring an image of Aramis somewhere behind it.

“Athos,” a voice interrupted.

He turned to see Travers descending the stairs and lifted his eyebrow in response. 

“Treville wishes to see you.”

 

~

 

When Athos entered, the captain was standing rather than sitting, back turned as he finished attaching the buckle on his baldric and reached for his cloak.  “Athos,” he acknowledged succinctly, turning to face him.  Setting his cloak back down, he picked up a scrolled loop of parchment and began to unbind it.

Somewhere between deference and greeting, Athos briefly inclined his head.  “Travers said you had an assignment for me.”

“I do.” Treville nodded.  “During the breakout at the chatelet, there were four other prisoners who escaped when d’Artagnan fled with Vadim.  We believe they made it out through the adjacent tunnel under the sewers.”

“I remember,” said Athos.

Treville held out the parchment, passing it over. “If the information is correct, one of them has been located.  I can issue the retrieval to someone else, but I think it best assigned to you. And I thought d’Artagnan would appreciate sharing in the appointment to bring him in.”

Athos removed his hat and glanced over the document. “Loys de Vret,” he read. “Convicted of illegal trade, theft. Accused of killing a cleric and his page in the aftermath of a tavern brawl.  Why wasn’t he executed?”

“Connections with members at court, I suspect. His brother appealed for his life. Will your men be able to apprehend him?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Then the assignment is yours. Porthos will return within the hour.” Treville reached again for his cloak, then paused, the corner of his eye twitching minutely. “I was thinking, perhaps you should consider not involving Aramis in this one.”

Athos swallowed, fingers flexing into the cloth of his hat as he held it against his chest.  “Aramis is loyal, Captain.”

Treville finished tying his cloak and shook his head. He came to stand evenly with Athos’s shoulder while facing the exit, his expression grim and stern, as if it could ever be described to be anything less.  “No one knows that better than I, Athos.  You need not remind me.  Aramis will fulfill his duty.  Whether it ought to be asked of him today, that is something you must weigh.” 

Then he walked forward, towards the door, leaving Athos with a dark sensation in his chest. 

“Captain,” Athos said, stopping him. They caught eyes. “Aramis would not appreciate nor take confidence in our leaving him behind.”

Treville lowered his chin a fraction. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t suppose he would. I don’t suppose any of us would.”

 

~

 

De Vret was armed when they found him. Posing as an importer of English muskets and novelties, he was going by the name Evrard—his brother’s name—and doing business out of an alehouse by the river.

Having been tipped off by the proprietor, he spooked when he saw them, causing a brief chase though narrow streets which dead-ended in the bottlenecked platform of a docking port.

With his back pressed to the wall of the supporting storage shack and Aramis next to him, Athos curved his head around the corner. At less than four sword-lengths away, the fugitive had marked their location and had his pistols pointed in their direction, standing boldly and without cover.

Athos grunted, bumping shoulders with Aramis’s as he pulled his head back and thumped it lightly against the wall behind them. Both of them were breathing heavily from the unexpected sprint.  Even through the leather coverings and the rush of blood in his own veins Athos could feel the way Aramis’s chest was working to slow down.

“Are you all right?” he questioned, dropping his voice low.

Aramis blinked. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be?"

Athos glanced over him, observing some foreign particle in the body language he wasn’t accustomed to seeing. Shrugging lightly, he answered, “It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. Our information was sound. He shouldn’t have been tipped off.”

“That’s the thing about information,” Aramis replied, looking straight ahead in a way that made it seem like he was talking to the world at large instead of someone specific in his vicinity. “We can never fully know who else has it, or what they’ll do with it.  In the end, we do what we must, Athos.  We all do what we must.”

Breathing quietly, Athos watched him a moment longer, then turned his head the other way and cleared his throat to lift his voice. “You have no options, Loys,” he called. “Surrender yourself and we will make your journey to your former accommodations as peaceful as possible.”

“I have options. I could go into the water!” Loys shot back. “Or I could shoot the barge porter when he comes round. Should be any moment now. Should walk directly through that passage there, and I’m a pretty good shot.”

Aramis sighed, a slow exhale. Athos glanced at him, then looked beyond to where Porthos was joining them, bearing up behind d’Artagnan. “I could go around the other way,” whispered d’Artagnan.  “At least try to close the gap before anyone comes along?” 

Athos nodded, though before d’Artagnan could move, he bent forward, stretching his arm across Aramis’s chest to stop the young Gascon with a grip to his jacket.  “Porthos,” he instructed.

Porthos clapped a hand to d’Artagnan’s shoulder and gave Athos a nod. “I’m with him. Don’t worry.”

“What’s it going to be?” yelled Loys.

“Do you really _want_ to shoot the porter?” Aramis called back, his tone politely casual, as Athos was used to hearing it play out in these situations, though it was coupled with a soft edge that made him straighten.

“Will if I have to,” said Loys. “And anyone else that comes walking down that way.  Man, woman, or child. Done it before, haven’t I? And I’ll do it again. I’m not going back to the chatelet.”

Silently un-holstering his pistol, Aramis took his hat from his head and held it against his chest, the weapon hidden behind it. “What about me?” he called as he took a half step away from the wall. 

“What _about_ you?”

“Would you shoot me?”

“Aramis,” warned Athos in a low voice.

“Of course I’d shoot you,” said Loys. “You want to take me back there. Why wouldn’t I shoot you?”

Aramis flashed Athos a steady look, then took another step away from the wall.  He was too damn good at that, Athos thought—the illusion of steadiness.  Returning the look with a hard gaze, he gripped his own pistol, and drew it out.

“Well, directly said, we can’t talk if you shoot me,” Aramis replied.  “And we do need to talk if we’re to find a peaceful resolution to this... circumstance.  There are four of us.  You have only two shots.”

“Three. I've another pistol on my hip. Didn't count that one did you?”

“Just the same.  Do you think you would truly be able to draw the third before one of us takes you? You’re not going to gain your freedom from this port by shooting people.  Alternatively, perhaps if we talk, you can explain your position and we can resolve this. I’d like to understand.”

“You’d like to _understand_ ,” scoffed Loys, but his voice had crawled backwards, something hesitant in the vocal chords. “So talk.” 

Aramis nodded, and with an easy step moved out from the cover of their shed, looking the very picture of innocent compassion.

“Aramis,” Athos repeated lowly, brushing his hand against the leather of Aramis’s sleeve as he passed by, without trying specifically to restrain him. When Aramis didn’t slow and instead presented himself fully to their target, Athos took a half step away from the wall himself, where he re-angled his stance to find Porthos’s dark frown confronting him from across the gap. He shook his head dimly in response—once—and watched as Porthos visibly tensed. 

“Perhaps you could tell me what happened that night,” Aramis was saying.  “During your original arrest, I understand four other people were killed?”

“That’s right,” said Loys, changing the aim of the pistol in his right hand to point at Aramis’s chest.  “And where are _their_ killers do you suppose?  Not in the chatelet, I’ll tell you that.  The others that got killed that night all got killed in the brawl.  Said it wasn’t murder and that they couldn’t tell who did them in anyway. No one else got charged ‘cept me.”

Aramis cocked his head.  “And you killed a cleric?”

Athos held his breath, trying to shed the tension in his chest.  He shifted again to re-angle his stance, hoping to do so without spooking the fugitive into firing.  Crouched below Porthos, d’Artagnan pointed at a ladder that would take him up the roof of the next storage house over.  Athos nodded as d’Artagnan started to climb—Porthos hunkering down in his place, trying to find a firing angle that didn't put Aramis in his crosshairs.  An unreliable prospect at best.

“The cleric was out in the street,” Loys was explaining. “Bumped into him. I was drunk—thought he was one of the brawlers coming after me.”

“And the boy?” asked Aramis. “The page?”

Abruptly, Loys sneered and straightened, drawing a tighter aim, marking the pistol towards Aramis’s head.  “The boy saw me do it—saw my face.  I had to kill him.”

Fractionally, Aramis shifted his hat. “I see.”

“No you don’t.  You don't see.  It doesn’t matter why I did it.  Either way, I shouldn’t have been the only one from that fight who ended up in the chatelet.”

“Your brother appealed to the court on your behalf. Most men in your position would have been executed.  You don’t feel that was a mercy?”

“My brother shouldn’t have done it.” Loys's voice shook, though his hand stayed steady.  “He just wanted… He just wanted…”

“He just wanted you to live,” finished Aramis.

“What does it matter if I’m alive but locked away back there?  Life and living aren’t hardly the same thing.  Sometimes, death is better.”

“Yes,” agreed Aramis.  “Sometimes it is.” 

Simultaneously, the pistols fired.

 

**~**

 

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the fic-writer who cried wolf. Apparently when I decide to flesh a few sections out a little more during editing, the story lengthens a tad beyond my original intentions. However, though there is one last and final section to be posted after this one, it will be up today. Likely within a few hours. If you can believe the fic-writer who cried wolf, that is. ;)

  **~** **Part Three** **~**

 

Athos took his hat off, holding it in his hands as he watched Porthos peel the cloth back from the side of Aramis’s head to check the wound.  His fingers were stiff from the remnants of galloping blood under his skin and his hair felt tight against his scalp.  Free from the obstruction of cover, a faint breeze ruffled through the loose strands and brushed down the back of his neck.  He glanced at the sky to gauge the threat of rain and then resumed his staring.

“How is he?” he asked. 

Crouched with one knee pressed close to Aramis’s ribs for leverage and the best angle to treat the wound, Porthos clenched his teeth and tossed him a look, jaw muscle flexing.  “Wound’s a bloody mess,” he answered.  “Don’t know what he was thinking.” 

“But?” prompted Athos.

“But he should be all right,” conceded Porthos. Gently, he eased the cloth back a touch more. “Won’t even scar, I don’t think. See for yourself.” 

Placing his hat back on his head, Athos accepted the invitation and knelt, mirroring Porthos from Aramis’s other side. Stoically, he slid his hand between the dock and Aramis’s neck, cupping the base of his skull so he could turn it to get a better look. 

Aramis’s head was heavy in his grip. And warm.  Alive.  Athos flexed his palm and breathed, bracing his thumb just below the pale ear.

Porthos backed his fingers away carefully while Athos took over holding the bloody cloth.  The hair beneath was matted, and there was a bruise spreading out from the wound, looking like it wanted to take on the vestiges of color still visible around Aramis’s already blackened eye.  But the injury itself was small—the angle glancing.  

Athos sighed, fighting the stiffness down his back. “You’re right,” he concluded. “It shouldn’t scar, though I’ll feel better when the bleeding’s completely stopped.”

“If he’s all right, why hasn’t he woken up?” asked d’Artagnan, standing a few paces beyond Aramis’s feet, brow furrowed.

“Right then,” said Porthos, brushing his knuckles against Aramis’s pauldron.  “We should probably do that now. Athos?”

Nodding, Athos adjusted his position, spreading one hand over Aramis’s heart and using the other to lock Aramis’s arm in a hold around his leg.  On the other side, Porthos pressed his knee gently over the shoulder joint.

D’Artagnan shifted uncomfortably. “What are you doing?”

Athos felt the wry twitch of his lips despite himself and answered honestly.  “When Aramis is wounded, occasionally he has the potential to wake up…” He paused, searching for the right word while exchanging a look with Porthos.

“Startled,” Porthos finished.

“Yes. Startled,” Athos agreed, bowing his head as if in gratitude.

Arms folded, d’Artagnan glanced between them without moving his face.  “Startled,” he repeated skeptically.

“Ready?” Porthos asked, withdrawing a vial from Aramis’s own pouch.

“Ready.”

“What is that?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Salt of hartshorn.”  Porthos tapped the vial, then took the lid off and hovered it near Aramis’s nose.  “If he doesn’t wake to this, we have a problem.”

Abruptly, Aramis issued a loud and jerky gasp, his heart quickening beneath the press of Athos’s palm.  His head rocked and he groaned, his suddenly open eyes flooding with a disorientation that was disconcerting, though no violence seemed forthcoming. “Marsac?” he asked, breathless and confused. “Marsac?”

Porthos growled, a deep rumbling sound, obscured in the back of his throat in a way that made Athos believe he was trying to quell it. “No,” Porthos said strongly, cupping a large hand to the side of Aramis’s face, thumb gracing his cheekbone as he tilted it so that their eyes could meet.  “Not Marsac, Aramis. It’s us. You’re with us.” 

Eyes clawing back to clarity, Aramis shuddered, then blinked.  For one moment, the specter of a true and full emotion rose in his expression.  Something raw, and more real than Athos had seen from him in days. It stabbed at the gap-space between his lungs and he swallowed roughly as he tried to identify it _._

 _You may be content to do nothing_ , he heard Aramis’s voice echo through his ears. _I’m not._

_I’m not._

Swallowing again, Athos pressed his hand more tightly over the heartbeat below his hold.  “Aramis.”

Another blink and that stark emotion was gone, replaced by a steadiness Athos felt loath to trust.  “I’m all right,” Aramis murmured, testing the motion of his head against the dock. “I’m all right.”

Easing back on his heels, Athos traded a troubled glance with Porthos then smoothed his voice, patting his hand twice over Aramis’s chest as he lightened his grip.   “It’s going to rain soon,” he informed.  “And we’ve got to report the prisoner and get him to the undertaker. Do you think you might be able to stand?”

Aramis began to nod, then stopping, braced himself with a grimace. “In a moment,” he said, smoothing his eyelids.

“Can I do anything?” asked d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” whispered Aramis, eyes remaining closed. “When we get back to the garrison, you can fetch me my spare hat.”

“Not your spare hat.  Not anymore,” Athos cut in severely, more reprimand in his tone than he intended, though perhaps evident only to those who knew him. “No one told you to blow a hole in the first one.” 

“Just the same,” Aramis countered dully. “I’ll be needing it. You rarely fail at predicting rain.”

 

~

 

Somewhere between the undertaker’s and Treville’s office, Aramis seemed to regain his footing, drifting farther and farther from the hand Porthos continued to balance against his shoulder.

“That was a damn stupid thing you did,” Porthos said as they ascended the stairs to make their report.

“As you’re fond of telling me,” replied Aramis, but there was not nearly enough humor in it for Athos to take it seriously.

He reached out to touch Aramis’s elbow, slowing him. “It _was_ stupid,” he said calmly.  “You provoked him. If you’d led him to talk a bit longer before bringing up the page, d’Artagnan would have been in position to help you.” 

Aramis looked away.  “You give me far too much credit.”

 _Or not enough_ , thought Athos, letting go of him.  _Not nearly enough_.

 

~

 

The sun was withdrawing its light from the undercarriage of the clouds by the time they finished their report, at which point most of the garrison was empty.  Just the same, dinner was brought out to them at the table—food that was warm, despite the hour.

Aramis sat and stared at it a moment before he plucked up his only hat and stood without a word.

“Another walk?” asked Porthos. 

“Bit of a headache,” answered Aramis. “Not hungry.”

Biting his teeth together, Porthos tossed Athos a look and shook his head.

“Aramis,” called Athos.  “You were injured today.  Stay within the boundaries of the garrison and out of the rain.” It was an order and worded like one. Direct in a tone and manner that Athos tried to use with his men only sparingly.  

Aramis didn’t look at him but he paused, absent, for a space, of all movement.  Finally he nodded and settled the hat on his head, mindful of his wound, as he wandered towards the passageway leading out of the yard.  Before Athos could get a sense that his orders were about to be defied, he watched Aramis take seat on a bench within the gap through to the gates.

The sky hadn’t broken yet, but if it did, the location would keep him dry—dryer than they’d be, at least, and without the need to dash for cover.

Porthos grunted, twisting back to his food. “Are we going to talk about it?” he asked.

Filling his lungs, Athos rolled a piece of bread between his fingers then held it still, letting the weight of evening air swath the discomfort in his chest.  “Alright,” he agreed.

The tension line across Porthos’s shoulders eased fractionally.  “He’s slipping on us,” he started.  “I can see it. Do you remember him back then? What he was like?”

Athos felt his muscles wallow then tighten—sense memory.  He’d done so much by rote back then, by going through the motions.  There was much from that time he didn’t remember, and much he didn’t want to remember. The survivor of Savoy stumbled somewhere in between those two worlds—an all too relatable phantom.  But, “Yes,” he answered.  “I remember.”

“What… what was he like?” d’Artagnan asked cautiously, eyeing them both as though uncertain of his place in this conversation.

Porthos broke focus with Athos, turning his head. “It was like he’d come back as one of the dead—that’s what he was like.  Would hardly look anyone in the eye.  Never slept. Barely ate.”  He paused, appearing to roll his next words around in his jaw as his brow creased.  “After the massacre, after Marsac left him in that forest, it was like he’d forgotten he had any brothers left at all. For a long time he was always going off on his own, taking damn idiotic risks.  Almost like he was _trying_ to get himself killed.” 

“To be fair,” Athos said dimly, “he’s never actually stopped taking those risks.  Throwing himself on a bomb during the attack on the king and queen comes to mind.”

D’Artagnan frowned.  “He threw himself on a bomb?”

“Not the point,” growled Porthos. “Look, we’re soldiers, I know. All of us.  And dying is part of our business. But even now, he talks about death too casually. If he starts forgetting more often than usual that he has us here, that we’re actually here to back him up, I’m not certain—”

“He won’t,” Athos interjected.

Porthos pressed his gaze. “Because today was a clear and fast example of that, right?”

Athos set the bread in his hand back to the table, without ever having taken a bite.

“Okay,” d’Artagnan hedged, releasing the word cautiously. “So what do we do about it?”

“To tell it honestly, I’ve been thinking a bit more about what we should have done,” said Porthos.

Athos felt the stab of meaning, and didn’t look away.

For a moment, d’Artagnan seemed confused, though soon enough understanding touched his eyes. “Are you talking about Marsac?”

Porthos said nothing. 

“You think we should have helped him more with his investigation into Savoy,” d’Artagnan concluded.

Athos watched as the tension lines subtly retraced themselves in Porthos’s posture, as if regardless of what he was saying, the concept he was setting between them was still something he grappled with.

“We questioned Treville,” Athos reminded him, though there was no force in it.  “We let Aramis investigate.  We covered for him. We stood with him.”

“Until it came right down to it,” Porthos refuted.

“What more could we have done?” asked d’Artagnan. “We were close enough to court martial as it was.”

“We’ve finessed the lines for each other before. Or have we all forgotten Bonnaire already?” Porthos looked back at Athos. “And there are other examples I could give.”

“It isn’t the same,” insisted d’Artagnan. “We spent the better part of the week helping Aramis hide a fugitive.  One who later tried to kill the captain by all accounts.  You said it yourself—Treville is a man of honor. He admitted no wrong. What were we supposed to do?  Take Marsac’s word over his?”

“That’s the thing right there, isn’t it?” said Porthos. “I’ve been thinking about that. We thought— _I_ thought—we were choosing between Treville and Marsac, but it was Aramis…  Aramis was the one in the middle of it.  And we left him alone with it—with the ghosts of twenty dead Musketeers.  When it came down to it, we left him alone with them as surely as Marsac did when he left him alone in those woods.”

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan began quietly.

Porthos waved him off.  “Bad enough what all the Musketeers lost that day. But if it had been my troop… If it had been any one of you lost to that slaughter, I wouldn’t have seen it as a choice between Treville and Marsac. I’d have wanted to know the truth, no matter what.  I’d need to know it. Can either one of you say different?”

For that, Athos gave no answer. He glanced at what he could see of Aramis and rubbed his forehead. 

Twenty Musketeers lost to Savoy. Now, twenty-one. Aramis was the survivor. Not the deserter. Not one of the slaughtered. But he carried the ghosts of all of them, letting their spirits whirl and twine about his legs until he was weighted by their company.

Yet, he was not the only one haunted.

Twice since the treaty had been signed, Athos had woken with the memory of standing over the duke and wanting to kill him for what he’d done, the want for blood thick in his nostrils.

Once, it had been Marsac laid out below him instead.

And once, it was Treville.

 _Aramis, before you go down this road, ask yourself one question. If it is true—what then?_ he remembered saying. Remembered the tautness of the air and the expression on Aramis’s face before they’d gone their separate directions.

_What then?_

Wearily, Athos stood, picking up his hat.

“Where are you going?” asked Porthos.

He paused.  “To ask a question I haven’t wanted to know the answer to.”

 

~

 

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it be, the last section, as promised (do I regain any credibility now?). My only warning is that we end on a circular but somewhat undefined note, which some readers may not appreciate. Nonetheless...

**~** **Part Four** **~**

 

Approaching quietly, Athos stopped just before the archway, observing.  Aramis had his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, but he was not asleep. His lips were moving, silently. An outline of private words. It was only the long familiarity between them that allowed Athos to guess at what they were. 

Being an educated man, he himself was versed in scripture.  He could not always remember the comforting passages Aramis seemed to recall—when he conceded to quote them aloud—but he remembered the stories. Some that he liked. Some that he did not.

Of the Massacre at Savoy, it was the story of Job that came to mind. 

For each of the disasters that had befallen Job’s life, there had been a messenger. A survivor. One left to tell the tale.  

 _“And I alone have escaped to tell thee,”_ Athos whispered under his breath, lowering his chin as he watched Aramis's lips move.

Aramis…

In this story, Aramis was that messenger. The witness.  With no one ready to hear his testimony.

Experience had taught Athos well that knowledge condemned as much as it saved, but knowledge carried alone… that too could be hell. And what did a messenger do with no one to tell? 

Savoy was never meant for Aramis alone to bear.

Digging deep for a breath, Athos moved, conscious of the earth beneath his boots as he entered the alcove and leaned against the wall opposite, scuffing his boot heel.

Opening his eyes, Aramis slid his gaze up, expression wrinkling in inquiry.

Athos removed his hat, turning it over in his hands. “Savoy,” he began.

Aramis’s eyes darkened poignantly and he looked away. Though not before Athos could catch a glimpse of that nameless cavern—that emotion that he could never quite describe—cropping up in Aramis’s expression.  Guilt or anger or doubt.  Grief.

Whatever it was, it made Aramis flinch, and reach for his hat, as though whichever emotion had seized him was demanding he demonstrate some act of respect, or mourning.  He’d been doing it ever since Marsac showed up, Athos realized. In the back of his mind, he remembered Aramis reaching for his hat—like a tick, like homage—nearly every time the twenty dead were mentioned. 

“Aramis,” he forestalled.

Aramis twitched and resettled his hat, then removed it completely and set it at his hip.  “Marsac is dead, Athos. The treaty signed, and the duke… gone.  It is resolved.”

Athos gazed back into the garrison, at the shadowed balcony and the impression of Treville somewhere above, sitting at his desk. The man who’d given him place and purpose beyond self-destruction. The man who’d given Porthos the chance to be other than a street thief. The patriot. Their captain. 

Fortifying himself, he pressed forward.  “Did Treville do it?” he asked Aramis, locking eyes with him.

Aramis stared, furrowed brow darker for the bruise that seeped across it.  He touched his hat again, then stood, chest moving steadily as he stepped closer.  The question hung there in air, hovering between them. Aramis glanced down, and then angled his head to the side.  “Does it matter?”

Athos took a breath and a step of his own. “Before I joined the regiment…” he began. 

Aramis tilted his face around, forehead worried.

Athos used the eye contact and apparent surprise to his advantage, starting again. “Before I joined the regiment…" he forced out. "I knew what it was to experience treachery and betrayal amongst those I loved and trusted best. I did not want to allow for the possibility of its existence here, amongst the Musketeers. My brothers.”  He drew another breath and closed the gap between them even more. “Something was badly wrong, Aramis. I just didn’t wish to see it.”

Aramis maintained the gaze, and the touch of compassion that came so easily to his eyes felt genuine—not like the mask he'd been wearing, meant to deflect things outward.  “The world is a more complicated place, I think, than either of us would like,” he finally said.

Lowering his head, Athos nodded—a truth he’d long known, if not accepted. “Was he guilty?” he pushed.

Still, Aramis hesitated.

“I know what I said before, but I’m here to listen, Aramis. This is not something you should hold alone.”

Aramis drew air through his nose and brought his chin up, watching for something in Athos’s face. 

Finally, he answered.  “In action, not intent.”

 _In action, not intent._ Athos rolled the phrase through his mind and just the same felt the sting seep down into his sternum.

“He was following orders, Athos. He did not know what would become of them. Though, I can’t imagine Treville has ever been accused of being a simple man.” 

 _And therefore must have known the intentions of others wouldn’t have been as honorable as his own_ , Athos finished privately.  But perhaps that was too harsh.  The world was, indeed, a complicated place.

“The others don’t need to know,” Aramis continued. “It would do no good. Treville bears what happened in Savoy as severely as any of us.” He paused. Then, by action born of some innate intuition, closed his fingers around Athos’s sleeve. “And whatever it is you believe, I never doubted you as my brother. You behaved with honor.  With loyalty.” His touch lightened and he looked away.

Abruptly, Athos reversed the grip, closing his fingers around the inside of Aramis’s elbow.  He used the leverage to pull him forward, clasping tightly to the joint while bringing the hand with his hat around to hold the back of Aramis’s head. “If that is true, then do not patronize me with these words.  Not unless you give yourself the same consideration. I know you didn’t want to question Treville, and I understand why you did. Forgive me if it seemed it was you I was doubting. It never was.”

Aramis blinked, pained, but did not try to pull back.

“You fulfilled your responsibility to them,” Athos pressed, and had no doubt that Aramis knew to whom he was referring. “But you were not meant to be one of the dead.  You are here now, with us. Alive.”

“I know.”

Filling his chest, Athos backed off slightly but didn't let go. “And yet in our task today, you seemed not to.”

Aramis twitched his eyes away, gaze suddenly distant. “We are Musketeers. We do what is necessary. We give our all. Even unto death. It is nothing new for us, Athos. Not for us.”

“We give our all.  But we do not needlessly toss away our lives when there is a better way to do things. We are brothers, Aramis. We rely upon our brothers. Forgive me if in these past few days I have not made that clear to you.”

The fleeting half-smile Athos saw too often upon Aramis’s face graced his features.  Though in the brief second that it appeared it seemed raw and open, Athos could still not quite read it. “Aramis?” he pressed.

Aramis nodded, holding their gaze again before glancing to the ground and away.  “Brothers, Athos.  Always,” he said, then stumbled slightly, pain flashing in his face.

“Aramis?”

“Touch dizzy,” he replied, lifting his hand towards his hair.  “Bit of a headache.”

Breathing deep, Athos tightened his grip, and kept him upright, trying to decide if he should accept the words.  He would have to, he supposed. Until he saw some way to reiterate them, it would have to be good enough.

 

~

 

It might have been the headache, but every time Aramis closed his eyes, Marsac was waiting for him.  Walking away through the forest, or standing in the armory with a loaded pistol. 

 _This has to end here, Aramis. You know that._  

_We were brothers once. For the sake of our old friendship…_

_We are brothers, Aramis._

The last was said by Athos, but in his dreams the images kept mixing themselves up.  His pistol would fire, with his typical long-honed precision, but he could never quite tell who he hit.  Or he’d be standing, leaning against a tree in a winter forest as Athos walked farther and farther into the distance, stooping under some unknown weight before Aramis could ever return the pact he’d made and lift it off him.

 _We follow our orders_ , he heard himself say, somewhere in between the changing images. _Even unto death._

“Easy now.”  A heavy hand settled on his chest.

“Porthos?”

“Right this time.”  Porthos glanced over his shoulder.  “Think he’s coming around better now,” he murmured to someone.

Athos appeared, squinting down into Aramis’s eyes. “You never rest as easy as I’d like when you are wounded,” he said after a moment.

Porthos chuckled low.  “Pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” he said, giving Aramis’s chest a pat.

Aramis blinked, trying to remember and identify which of their lodgings they’d directed him to.  His head throbbed.  Marsac’s voice remained in his ear— _I’m weary of it, I’m weary of it_ —the dead weight of him still pressed against his sternum. “Athos,” he said abruptly, catching the indistinct nature of his own voice.  “The demon that follows you...”

Porthos’s smile faded as he glanced up between them, removing his fingers from Aramis's chest and threading them gently near the wound on his skull instead, as though some new damage would make itself known.

“When you’re ready,” Aramis mumbled, still seeking Athos’s face.  “When you’re ready.”

Athos sat by his hip and was silent a space. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

 

  _The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And I alone have escaped to tell thee,” is indeed a reference to the words of the sole witnesses who survived various disasters and then went forth to tell Job of his losses. It is quoted in many common biblical translations as beginning in Job 1:15 and then carries as a theme through the next few verses.
> 
> Of note, most translations actually quote the statement as, “And I only am escaped alone to tell thee.” 
> 
> For a variety of reasons, I went with the more colloquial translation.
> 
> And because someone just asked me about it. When Aramis says that Treville is not a "simple" man, "simple" in this context utilizes the meaning: Having manifested little intelligence. Naive. Ignorant.


End file.
